


ad meloria (toward better things)

by lavkha



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dogs, Angst, Gen, Homosexuality, Hurt, M/M, Minecraft, it makes sense I promise, kinda., you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28113726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavkha/pseuds/lavkha
Summary: dream knows that his cactus will survive.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Kudos: 9





	ad meloria (toward better things)

**Author's Note:**

> HALLO i am in desperate need for validation and motivation 2 continue thissss :3 also if its not clear in the fic, this is set /in minecraft/, so dream like. is the main character? the player? and george is a wolf that he finds and they have lil adventures :]]]
> 
> pls do not send this to ccs

dream knows that his cactus will survive.

it’s not even as if he needs to water it. the rain comes often, and plenty, and drenches his boots. the water stains the leather; it speckles in tan and egg-brown. the pot is small and is set outside. it softens the kitchen window and he stares at it all afternoon until he’s realized it has grown a centimeter and his coffee has gone cold.

he figures he should name it. the cactus has been with him for the last year, a silent creature but a familiar one. ever since dream found his first abandoned village the plants take on a different look. they taunt him, surprise him, wag their stems as phantoms to let them be at rest. the shock of an unused bed was too much to process—his mind scattered to thoughts of cabinets left ajar, unfolded piles of laundry, keys in pockets that would never turn again.

dream used to go out every night and battle, trying to adjust to death, trying to adjust to an empty world. nowadays he sleeps late and hoes the garden. at least in his garden the leaves don’t rustle in a menacing drawl.

he knows it’s weird, to talk to the beets and have them talk back, but who else is he supposed to make conversation with? should he invite the zombies to tea?

his world is a mess of flames and bones. please let him talk to his beets.

-

winter comes, and the cactus survives. it begins to bloom in december—it felt like last year was last night—and he marvels at the scarlet buds, the blushing thorns. he thinks of getting another to keep it company. he tries out “bertram,” “henry,” “quinn,” but none of the names seem just right for the little christmas cactus.

dream paces, stained boots heavy on the planks. a bookshelf would look nice next to his bed. when he was young he dreamed of living in a library. he would swing on the grand ladders, zoom from autobiography to mystery in mere seconds. he would sleep on shelves and velvet armchairs and sip hot cocoa by the fireplace. he would have a friend who lived in a far-off place and would only come to visit at christmas, but that would make the visits so much more special. he would slot one dirty sneaker into the stone wall’s vines and pretend the floor was lava. he would run and giggle and have someone to place bandaids on his knee.

a bite from a gnat wakes him up from his daydream and he jolts up, hand clutching holster, breathing stilled for fear of skeletons. the gnat buzzes away; of course it was just a bug, it’s only daytime, the sun gleams right above him. he misses villages. and smoked mutton. and his mom.

it’s snowing one morning. it glitters down in gentle waves and he takes deep breaths. the cactus breathes with him, he thinks. resists the urge to pet its spikes; he knows what it means to be avoided.  
the snow continues through the night and he lies awake in his bed. there are villages he’s never seen. bones he’ll never know. a shudder. his hatred for the monsters will never decrease. he thinks: pet dogs. he thinks: a lukewarm kettle.

-

winter is over in a blink. dream figures he should strip mine sometime soon; his pickaxe is wearing down. a pork chop would be nice for dinner.

he almost feels sorry for the herd of pigs he slaughters. they don’t know why he needs them. another shudder. they’re just pigs. he takes a shortcut through the birch thicket and realizes it was not a shortcut—he is lost.

an advantage of going out every night and fighting was that he knew his terrain. these months spent inside have wreaked havoc on his internal compass and he can barely recount what color his front lawn is. and now he is lost and his cactus will dry up and his bed will be found unmade and oh god, oh god, oh god.

climbing up a spindly birch tree, hooking his legs around the strongest branch, he thinks back to childhood dinners of meat and fried potatoes. he was often cold and his mother bought him too many turtlenecks. he hated how they itched and so he relied on dinner to keep him warm. he would sit on the kitchen floor, book propped up against a cabinet, and focus on the heat of the stove and his mother’s smile to keep him grounded. he’d set the table, fix up the napkins into haphazard origami swans, and nearly tip over as he poured the tap water. one year his brother bought a tablecloth at the school winter wonderland fair, for six whole dollars, and they ate christmas dinner on the scratchy red plastic with grins and heavy plates. he doesn’t have any cookbooks in his house, now. he doesn’t remember his favorite childhood books. the manuscripts he collected over the years from libraries drenched in dust and dilapidated bookstores are hardly legible from the wear and tear. he does not pick up the ones with bite marks on the covers. 

dream doesn’t know why there aren’t more cemeteries. he knows, deep inside, that there is no one but him left; but he will never speak the thought out loud. he hopes to hear children playing in the forest and not birds. he hopes to hear dogs bark at rabbits, tugging on cobalt-blue leashes, and not dogs barking to be let in. he hopes, one day, to hear something alive.

but wait a second—he is hearing a dog bark right now. could it be a wolf? how many dogs has he seen recently? the moon is rising now, it’s dark and cold, he’s alone—he could easily be dinner for a hungry pack of wolves and oh god, oh god, oh god.

he sits as still as possible and holds his breath. he would like to sleep in his bed tonight, please.

footsteps are coming from the northwest. dream can hear the twigs snap and dry leaves crunch. maybe it’s not a wolf; maybe it’s not hunting.

and in a sudden breathless moment it barks again. he falls off the branch, startled and vulnerable, and sees the creature’s eyes. he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a deeper brown than that. dark caramel. saturated copper. god.

he sighs, and realizes it is, in fact, a dog. no wolf here. his shoulders relax and he smiles as it waddles over to him, tail wagging softly, and it begins sniffing his boots. the dog licks the sole, interested in whatever dirt dream has stepped in today.

“ew. don’t lick my boot,” dream laughs, and the dog barks in a way that could seem lighthearted, if dream didn’t know better. because dogs can’t understand him. duh.

it comes over, shy as if it wasn’t just making dream fear for his life with its wolf-like howls. he extends a hand and it gladly ducks under it, happy as he pets it. he wonders if it’s lonely; wonders if it has a name. he notices a gleam by its neck, the moon reflecting off its collar. yes, a collar! he snags it with one finger, the dog cocking its head with curiosity, and reads it aloud:

“george. hey, buddy, is your name george? are you a good boy, george?” george the dog smiles—smiles!—and he smiles back. it’s kinda a weird name for a dog, feels too human, but he realizes it could’ve been a good name for his cactus. oh, shit, his cactus. he needs to get home before an actual wolf comes for him, or worse, a zombie.

there is no question in his mind that he wants to take the dog home. where else could it possibly go? he wasn’t just gonna let it fend for itself, out in the cold, and he realizes george is sniffing his knapsack where he’s keeping the pork loin from an hour ago. he’ll deal with everything else later: his priority now is getting home with george safely.

the dog follows him with no hesitance and he leads it out of the forest until he realizes he’s still lost. george seems to realize this and barks to get his attention, and starts trotting along in front of him, as if he knows the way. dream is worried at first, doesn’t want to get any more lost than he already is, but quickly realizes that george is leading him the right way. he recognizes the tiny stream by the sunflower field, remembers the weird pattern of rocks by the edge of the clearing, and in a few minutes they’ve arrived at his house. he doesn’t care how the dog knew; he’s elated and can’t wait to get dinner cooking. george immediately jumps on his bed and sits patiently for any scraps of pork he can get. dream is happy to oblige and george curls up at his feet, happy to at last be with a human.

-

when dream wakes up he is annoyed. there’s probably a leak in the roof, he knew those planks were too shallow, how much did it rain last night—and then he sits up and sees george the dog drooling right on his blanket. great. amazing. what a perfect start to the day.

he figures george is hungry. the dog is an aloof creature, almost taunting him with those big brown eyes as he circles around dream, curling his mouth just the slightest to show off glistening yellow teeth. dream shuffles around the combination kitchen-dining room, unsure of where he dropped the sacks of wheat and pork late last night. george prods behind the table with his nose, and dream almost thanks him out loud. they eat proxy bacon and pretend the river water is warm milk.

dream wonders what breed george is. he has big scruffy ears that point like little mountains, but he’s not like a husky, or a herding dog. he wishes—he could use some sheep, chicken, anything. there was one time, during his travels, when he came across a woodland village and saw the children riding baby lambs. they looked so cute. soft.

enough melancholy for this morning. he had a plan for today: find lava.

after everything happened, almost all lava sources disappeared. even the deepest ravines only held water, abandoned mineshafts, stupid amounts of coal. if he can find lava, he can make a portal—and see if anyone else survived.

the chances are low, and the risks are high. diamonds have also proven scarce, and ever since he broke his enchanted diamond axe last month, he’s been too scared to venture far away from the house. but if he doesn’t at least try to make contact with another human, he’ll go crazy. like actually. meeting george is the best thing to happen to him in months.

he’s not sure how to communicate to george that he wants to go out searching for lava. he doesn’t even know if george knows what lava looks like—he plays a little game of charades with him that afternoon, lights a campfire, describes a river of fire, tries everything, but george just tilts his little head and sits there. no thoughts. dream sighs; this is going to be pretty hard.

dream picks up a bucket. he chucks some kindle in it, a couple sheets of paper for good measure, and lights it. he ushers george over to see, and something sparks in the dog’s eyes. maybe he finally understood?

to be sure, he picks up a few dark rocks from outside the door and places them in a rectangle. he takes another sheet of paper, dyes it purple, and places it within the rectangle. george barks—maybe he really does get it! yes! lava, obsidian, portal—it’s all coming together.

they leave immediately. george is hyper and keeps yipping at the tiniest sound, even if it’s just his own paw on the grass. dream is admittedly pretty excited as well, but he doesn’t want to get his hopes up. with lava-hunting comes mobs, inevitably, and he doesn’t want george to get hurt. skeletons are his least favorite. zombies are easy kills, creepers are slow and dumb, but skeletons can rush at him, hurt him from afar, scare him with a quick rattle of bones. there’s something about their emaciated forms that makes him ache. the zombies look human, sure, but skeletons are too familiar. their faces are like his. he could mistake his hands for theirs.

he chuckles, quickly, at the mental image of a dog skeleton. a puppy tagging behind a skeleton, maybe being a little friend like george is to dream.

they reach a ravine pretty quickly. there are earthquakes often, and the earth falls away very easily. the forest near dream’s house separates the prairie from the desert, and the sand is often light enough to dissolve in any water he brings along with him. he checks to make sure george is secure, with his red collar and leash, then dives down the ravine. george’s eyes go wide—he barks in a panic—and dream cushions their fall with his trusty water bucket right before they land. he laughs at george’s anxious barks and ruffles the dog’s head. he turns to the right, certain he heard something, and goes face-to-face-with a skeleton.

fuck.

the mob takes out its bow—fuck, enchanted, could this get any worse? dream flashes out his shield and unsheathes his iron axe. george nips at the skeleton’s ankle bones, opening up a spot for dream to slash the skeleton’s arms. the bow clatters to the ground, and he sees something adjacent to fear in its eyes. he can’t afford to feel sorry for it. he deals the final blow, and it falls to the ground in a cloud of dust. he feeds george a little bit of raw steak, as a treat.

“good boy.”

and they continue. dream tries to feel the gravel under his shoes, thinks of opposable thumbs and dog paws. he thinks about maybe sewing some leather booties for george, for when it’s either too cold or too hot out. the thought implies the existence of another season. another month spent without humans, but another month spent with george.

he is going through the motions right now, ducking past the mouth of a cave, one-twoing the creeper in the corner. he comes across an abandoned chest and finds some coal, stuffs it in his pocket even though he knows it’ll turn it black and sooty. he thinks fire, thinks campfire, thinks camp, thinks—and then he trips on a pebble, grasping for air as he tumbles down a cavern he’s only seen in his nightmares. right before he falls into a pool of lava, george’s leash—which was attached both to george’s collar and to dream’s wrist—catches on a stalagmite.

he is dangling above a pit of lava. there are no footholds in sight. he is fucked.

he curses for a couple satisfactory seconds, then looks up to george for assistance. he doesn’t know why, except for emotional support, because george is literally a dog and cannot help him. dream sighs and scurries his hands around his knapsack. there has to be something in here to help. there’s no rope, no lead, and no water bucket. he didn’t pick it back up after his descent into the ravine. this literally could not be any worse.

george whines. it reminds dream of sunday morning tea kettles, and he laughs without thinking. george scrunches his mud-colored nose. poor dog never wanted to get into this mess. he probably just wants another treat, some steak, maybe some fresh salmon—

and that’s when it hits him.

“george, you’re a genius!”

the dog looks quizzical.

dream pulls out a fishing rod and flexes his throwing arm to make sure he can make it. in a single toss, he’s able to latch the line onto a crag in the wall of rock and reels him and george up. he can already tell his arm is gonna be sore after today, but he’s just glad they made it out with the sun still in the sky.

once they’re completely fishing-rodded out of the cave, dream collapses on the ground and closes his eyes. he deserves a rest. he can feel george’s cold nose pressing up against his cheek, and he opens his eyes to see the dog curled up by his chest, in a manner he could only describe as cozy. cozy—he huffs out a laugh. he tries again to decipher what breed he is. he’s too big to be a terrier, but too small to be an akita. definitely not a lab—his fur is dark and scruffy, with dapples of snow-white and cream. there’s a spot above his eye the color of a lily.

george whines. dream pets him and they lie there for a moment, resting in the sun, thankful they are safe. he breathes in and remembers why he came in the cave in the first place—to find lava. of course. duh. he’s an idiot.

he scales back up the ravine to fetch a bucket of water then dumps it down the hole. the lava hisses, an ominous sound, and he releases a makeshift ladder so he can get down there. he mines the obsidian created, stacks it into a portal, and lights it. he’s definitely not going in the nether today, but at least he’s one step closer to humanity. he can make it.

**Author's Note:**

> ok like i said i need motivation to continue this and j. ideas in general. so if u have anything to add pls pls pls comment :DD
> 
> twt: @quakitie


End file.
